


Expected

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Drinking, Dry Humping, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:13:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2386286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy sort of justifies wanting and getting everything, even if that includes Thomas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn’t historically accurate or properly British. I just wanted Thomas happy, and I know I twisted the rules to get there, but oh well.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Self-revelations aren’t Jimmy’s cup of tea, which is saying something, as most things self-related definitely are. He’s quite happy to think of nothing but himself for the better part of dinner, but when the Dowager starts telling Lady Mary friendly advice such as, “Men like anything they can take and own,” and, “I don’t see why he has to like just one of you—he may have to tell the world he chooses one, but that certainly doesn’t stop him liking both,” things get a little complicated. 

Because even though they’re discussing Mary’s endless line of suitors, Jimmy knows that the Dowager’s as uncannily correct as ever; he’ll take anything he’s given and he can certainly like both. When he pops back down to fetch dinner from several nondescript kitchen maids all in a flurry over the food, he wouldn’t mind having one of them—in bed at least, maybe cooking for him, maybe not so much for talking and spending time dressed together and that sort of thing—but why does it have to end there? If he gets a hand on his knee brushing intimately up his thigh under the table or the silky, sensual slither of a glove across the back of his neck, it doesn’t have to mean he’s _like that._ He has to say he doesn’t like it, of course, because that’s what one does, but even the old bat upstairs knows that at least some part of him’s going to enjoy it. And why couldn’t he like _both?_

It’s a surprisingly big revelation that hits him all at once. He honestly never thought it was an option: both. Admiring two women, one man and a woman, it’s the same principle; a woman’s involved so it isn’t foul, really; what does it matter? He helps clear the plates from dinner while Mr. Carson sees the Dowager out and the ladies disappear up the stairs, his lordship trailing off with Isis. Jimmy loads up his arms because he abhors more trips than necessary (too much work) and Thomas looks likes he wants to take some off and help, but he’s kept his distance (physically) since the problem, and he doesn’t. He could be second-nature taking half Jimmy’s load and he isn’t, because no one ever bothered to tell Jimmy that maybe you didn’t just have to pick one or the other. You could take women to the pictures and still be a man and recognize an opportunity under your nose. They needn’t be mutually exclusive, surely. 

By the time they’re all finished for the night, he’s talked himself halfway to hell and back again. Not that he wouldn’t be headed there anyway, with all the fun he’s had and still plans on having. But this is still a leap, and when he heads for his room after shift, he passes Mr. Carson in the hall and feels like he must _know_ that Jimmy’s too young and beautiful and smart to not be invited down the road of corruption. Well. They all forgave Thomas.

But they wouldn’t have to forgive Jimmy, because Jimmy could still get a woman when it mattered. And Jimmy would be clever enough to hide it _properly_ , and that would’ve changed everything. 

Maybe if Thomas had introduced the idea slowly, sat him down and told him, not burst in in the middle of the night and woken him up with a scandal and a half—

Well, no. If Thomas had told him, Jimmy still wouldn’t have taken it well. He didn’t really _know_ Thomas like he does now. He didn’t _get_ it. Now he understands too much, and the more he thinks about it and contemplates the unholy wisdom that is the Dowager Countess, the more he’s sure he needs a drink. He started off just thinking a smart man would take everything he could get from all those offering, but now he’s thinking that _he_ could take, and therefore would, might, _does_ want everything. 

Out of his jacket but otherwise still in livery, Jimmy leaves his room in favour of the kitchens. He gets halfway before he realizes he doesn’t want tea—what good’s that going to do? He needs something stronger, something to shut his head up. He wishes he could go to Mr. Carson and explain that he needs to dull his senses before he goes hysterical over his own justifications, but that’s a laughable scene. He’d have more luck asking Mrs. Hughes for a kiss. 

If Thomas were butler instead of under, he’d have a drink with Jimmy. Hell, he’d steal the alcohol for them if he had to. He still would now. Jimmy detours without bothering to head back for his jacket—he’ll just be outside for a moment. 

It’s dark outside, cold as he expected, and the ground’s still moist from the afternoon rain. He knows Thomas is probably around back for a smoke, and he’s right. The gravel equal parts crunches and squishes beneath his boots as he goes, the crisp air driving him to wrap his arms around himself. He finds Thomas around the other side of the house, half hidden between barrels and leaned up against the stone, long jacket wrapped around his handsome frame. As Jimmy heads over, he wonders first how to phrase ‘would you steal a bottle for me?’ and then what it would be like if Thomas could just hide it better. 

He probably thinks he is. Thinks he’s clever. Subtle. Like Jimmy can’t see the hunger in Thomas’ eyes every time they look at one another. He’s not stupid. 

Thomas looks up at him before he’s halfway there, but Jimmy waits until there’s just a meter between them. After living in a house with Ms. O’Brien, he’s learned to keep his conversations down. He means to stop at the meter, but all he really does is falter and take two more steps, close enough to link arms if they wanted. If they lived in a different world, maybe. 

While Thomas pulls the cigarette out of his lips for a long blow, Jimmy shoves his hands into his pockets and asks bluntly, “Have you got any alcohol?” It’d just be easier. Thomas is paid more, is older, goes through more; maybe he has some. But he raises a dark eyebrow as though he wouldn’t say, even if he did. Jimmy feels compelled to give a reason why he needs it, but he doesn’t feel like explaining, ‘if you’d have been less creepy about it, maybe this could be different.’

Maybe Jimmy could be coming around back for other sorts of... favours. Distractions. Little benefits to cheer him up. It isn’t as if he hasn’t ever gotten those from people he shouldn’t before. But then... they weren’t _in love_ with him, (as lovable as he is) and maybe this wouldn’t be fair. 

Thomas finally asks, “What do you want it for?” He sticks his cigarette back between his pursed lips for a languid drag. His pale skin makes them seem even redder, flushed and a little moist. When Thomas’ cheeks hollow out, sucking in, it reminds Jimmy’s now-dirtied mind of other things. Hot, wet mouths sucking on other things. Would Thomas do that if he asked?

Thomas would probably be good at it. “I need it.”

Thomas pulls it back out and laughs while he blows. “Nobody _needs_ alcohol.”

Jimmy grins when he means to scowl. “I do.”

“No, you _want_ it,” Thomas amends, tilting his head back to puff smoke into the air. When his long neck arches, his adam’s apple pulls taut, then bobs down as he takes in a clean breath. His fingers slide so easily, so smoothly down the little paper tube. When he looks at Jimmy, his blue eyes are no less intense than they’ve always been. Maybe that’s what scares him away; Thomas is so _sure_ , and Jimmy didn’t really want Ivy and certainly wouldn’t have wanted Alfred or any other man like that, but he’d take just about any pretty enough, devoted girl, and maybe Thomas’ red lips wrapped around something a little fuller than a cigarette. “Why?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Does it matter?” Thomas sends a cloud of smoke his way, and it’s warmer than he expects; its late and dark and he should probably get back inside. Glancing over at the corner, he insists, “Look, have you got one or not?”

“Well, not on me,” Thomas chuckles. “But I suppose I could get my hands on one if you want it that bad.” Which sounds just like Jimmy thought; he’d have to steal it. 

But he would steal it. “You’d do that for me?” He didn’t mean to ask that. It sounds stupid. He wants to take it back, but it’s too late, and Thomas is already dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his boot. When he glances down, his dark hair slides along his forehead, and Jimmy’s immediately uncomfortable with how much he misses the sight of Thomas’ lips at work. Sucking in ash shouldn’t be as... interesting to watch as that was. 

Thomas straightens, looks at Jimmy in that you-know-and-I’m-not-as-ashamed-as-I-should-be-anymore sort of way, and bluntly says, “I’d do anything for you, Jimmy.” It sounds like something foolish and sappy that Daisy would say. 

Jimmy means to say ‘alcohol will do.’ He wants to say ‘even get down on your knees, let me test out a theory on your mouth, and promise to never tell a soul.’ He says, “Thank you, Thomas.” 

And then he turns on his heels and marches back for the house before he can work out just what exactly ‘anything’ entails.


	2. Part 2

The second time Jimmy gets alcohol since his revelation, it’s not from Thomas.

It could’ve been from Thomas, because Thomas offers to foot the bill—higher job and more money and all that—but Jimmy decides he doesn’t want to take more from Thomas than he already is, so he pays his own tab. The girl who brings him the second bottle is as cute as the first was, or maybe she is the first and he just wasn’t paying that much attention. Her blouse is unbuttoned low enough to give Mrs. Hughes a heart attack, but Jimmy doesn’t at all mind the view. When she bends to pour his glass for him, her chest nearly topples out of her shirt, and the way she tosses her head back to giggle makes more of her hair tumble out of her messy bun. The sort of girls you meet in pubs aren’t the sort you’d bring back to Mr. Carson, but Jimmy gets a buzz just out of being liked and knowing that he _could_.

Thomas is a sport and smiles through it, even looks at Jimmy with an open, undamaged look, like it isn’t killing him inside. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe he’s settling into their ‘friendship’ and moving on, and Jimmy’s just convinced himself that he’s too perfect for anyone to really get over. 

Then the girl gets shouted back behind the counter by an angry boss, and Thomas leans in closer than he needs to to say, “We should head back before they proclaim us dead.” It takes Jimmy a second to understand the sentence, even though it’s far from complicated. His head’s gotten that fuzzy, warm feeling of being free, and when he looks down at the dusty glass in his hand, he’s not sure how many times he’s downed it. He throws back the last puddle, lets it burn down his throat, and clinks the empty remains against Thomas’. His arm brushes against Thomas’: more little sparks of fire. 

“Cheers.” Thomas just nods. When Thomas pulls back, Jimmy’s not ready for him to go. 

They get up anyway. Climb out of their chairs, and Thomas puts a hesitant hand on Jimmy’s back, just to steady him, warm and supportive over the line of his spine, but then it’s gone a second later when they’re standing. Just a friend helping his drunk buddy up. Jimmy wants to reach back, but it wouldn’t make any sense now that they’re up and Thomas isn’t stumbling. 

As soon as they’ve weaved to the back and out the door, the cool night air hits them. They’re alone again, just like that. “’S quiet out here.”

Thomas snorts, maybe because they can still hear it all, just muffled. “No, it was loud in there. My eardrums are still ringing.” He runs his hand up and through his hair; Jimmy watches the long, pale fingers sweep through dark strands. He wonders how soft Thomas’ hair is, but he isn’t drunk enough to reach out and feel. 

He nods and glances back instead; the yellow light out the windows washes over the pavement. It was louder than he thought; now he can hear himself think again, and that might not be a good thing. He lets his coat hang open partly so he can take in the fresh air and mostly so he doesn’t have to fiddle with buttons, and Thomas does up his coat while he asks, “You sure you don’t want to go say a proper goodbye to your friend?”

Jimmy looks back over. “What friend?” He only came with Thomas, and they said they would be, but when he really thinks about it, are they _really_ friends? Thomas is fishing in his pockets now, maybe for cigarettes, but he must not find any, because they come back out empty. A shame. 

Jimmy wouldn’t mind watching that. Thomas smoking, that is. “Sally or whatever her name is.”

“Oh, her.” The more he stares down at the glove clutching so tightly to Thomas’ hand, the more he wants to see it hold something, something to put between Thomas’ lips. Maybe getting drunk with Thomas wasn’t such a good idea. He starts walking, because Thomas is taking too long, and he’s impressed with how straight he walks—not so drunk after all. When he glances back, Thomas follows: steadier and stronger and a good, sturdy friend to have with him, just in case he topples over. “She’ll be there if I go back. Her or someone else.”

“Someone else?” Thomas lifts his eyebrow and gets that mischievous look on his face, like Jimmy’s something of a rent boy. 

Which wouldn’t be far from the truth, if he really could get away with both money and sex and still live well. Fancy, even. Jimmy waves his hand all the same. They pass an elderly couple crossing the road and he lowers his voice. “You know what I mean. I could get one if I wanted. A woman.”

“I know you could.” Thomas looks away. He probably knows all too well. His pace quickens.

Jimmy shuffles to catch up, and in trying not to trip over a rock in his path, he forgets what he was going to say. So they carry on in a silence that’s somewhere right between very comfortable and very awkward. Is it cruel to say that to Thomas? But he wasn’t trying to say it like that. Thomas walks faster and gets ahead, and Jimmy watches his trim form pick along the path, then through the trees and wonders vaguely if, were Thomas not wearing a long coat, would Jimmy be able to see his arse twitch through his trousers like a girl’s when she walked? Not that he should be staring at Thomas’ arse. But alcohol just puts that on the brain. 

Downton isn’t that far from the village, not really, but it feels further when it’s dark and they don’t have a car and they’ve stayed out too late. But he often does that on his off-nights; no point being around work if he doesn’t have to, when there’s so much more to the world than dusting lords’ shoes and looking at frumpy maids and running to Mr. Carson’s beck and call. Like staring at Thomas, apparently, and wondering how to do what he’s been meaning to do. Thomas gradually gets faster and faster, stopping once or twice for Jimmy to catch up, and Jimmy pants in the effort and thinks at least he isn’t out here with a giant like Alfred and his two-meter-long-legs. 

They’re halfway through the woods—headed to sneak in through the stables and hope Mr. Carson doesn’t catch them out late, when Jimmy remembers what he was going to say. The cold air and brisk walk have sobered him up a bit, though he still knows the gravity. “I could, though.”

Thomas falters and looks back at him, foot halfway over a log. “What?”

“Get a woman if I wanted. And I do want.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. But I’m just saying. That doesn’t make me like you, then.” He’s stopped walking too. 

Thomas stops properly and turns to him, even takes a step closer, crunching down the fallen leaves. The trunks around them are mostly thin, but the moonlight’s not enough to see far; they’re probably safe here. It’s enough to wash over Thomas’ face, light his pale skin and flushed red cheeks up like some gorgeous creature out of fantasy. Thomas’ playful mask of banter is chipping away, and when he looks Jimmy dead in the eyes, it’s serious. And feels sort of like a warning to stop. “I know that, Jimmy.”

“But you don’t.” He shakes his head, then reaches a hand up to hold it, half to steady a sudden throbbing and half to brush back his fringe. He wants to explain more, better, to go into his new ‘both’ theory, or what he could claim as the Dowager’s theory, but the more he thinks about it, the more it doesn’t make any sense to say aloud. So he just sort of looks uselessly at Thomas and steps forward too, close enough that Thomas has to know he’s just as serious. Their toes are touching, and Thomas takes a step back, Jimmy another forward without thinking. He repeats, “I don’t have to be like that; that’s not all of it. So I wasn’t lying. To you or Alfred.”

Thomas opens his mouth, looks away and down and mutters, “I never said you did.”

“I know that, but I’m saying it’s more complicated.”

Thomas makes one of those sad, mocking smiles and turns. As soon as he takes half a step away, Jimmy’s following. “It’s not complicated,” Thomas grits out, like Jimmy is being incredibly naïve. “You’re not like me, I get that—”

“I know that, but I wasn’t saying—”

“I don’t even know why you brought it up.” 

“Thomas, stop—” Thomas does stop walking, turns sideways to look at Jimmy, face somewhere between determined and angry and pink from the cold. He’s breathing as hard as Jimmy is, and for a moment, Jimmy racks his brain for what to say that isn’t, ‘I want you.’

Which he may as well have said, because in the end, he ends up lunging forward. Doesn’t even mean to, but his body acts. One second he’s staring at Thomas’ lips, wondering what they taste like, and the next, he’s finding out. 

A bit of ash. He doesn’t know when Thomas last had a smoke, but it’s lingering there, mixed in with alcohol and that bland, generic sort of taste that the girls’ Jimmy’s kissed have had; maybe it’s more human than woman. Kissing isn’t that much different at all: soft and a little chapped and warm, not as wet as he’d like, because when he automatically sticks his tongue out to swipe over the seam of Thomas’ lips, they don’t open for him. 

He pulls back and glances up, realizing belatedly that Thomas has gone as stiff as a rock. He’s staring down at Jimmy, who licks his lips and straightens out, processing the information to conclude: yes, he did like that. 

A lot. And he wouldn’t mind going for it again. And no one could blame him, and Thomas couldn’t judge him, and Jimmy knows he’s a little tipsy but doesn’t care, because he wanted exactly that sober and probably wouldn’t have been stupid enough to try. 

When Thomas doesn’t do anything but stare at him, Jimmy asks, “Why didn’t you kiss me back?” He’s fairly certain Thomas knows how to kiss. 

Thomas’ eyebrows knit together in confusion and maybe judgment. “You don’t like me.”

 _Like._ Not the kiss, but _Thomas._ Jimmy hasn’t gone that far, and he mutters partly to himself, “Can’t I have one revelation at a time?” Because kissing a man was hard enough work. And... “And I do like you. As a friend anyway—I don’t know how else, but do I have to know right away? Can’t I work on feelings later?” He doesn’t know why it’s coming out like he’s asking Thomas for permission. “Those...” he trails off, brushing his hand in midair like brushing the weight of this away. “...Don’t those grow over time? This is man business right now.”

“Man business,” Thomas repeats. It shows how serious the moment is for him, because he doesn’t grin, and Jimmy’s just realized how badly phrased that was. 

He can feel his cheeks burning, but he corrects. “You know. Trying to get in someone’s skirt. Or trousers or whatnot. What men do.” 

Thomas repeats dully, “So you want me to kiss you back.”

Getting exasperated, Jimmy sighs, “Well that’s generally what you’re hoping for when you kiss someone, isn’t it?”

Thomas just looks at him. Maybe recalling the last time they kissed and how badly that went. 

But the last time, they didn’t really _know_ each other, and Alfred had marched in, and Jimmy thought one little kiss would topple his whole world when he couldn’t have been like that because he’d liked girls before, and he never stopped to think that he could like Thomas anyway, a lord would accept Thomas anyway, a whole house would, and he’s good enough to deserve more than one option so maybe he should have them. 

Maybe he could have Thomas and they could be clever enough to figure something out, something well thought-through and comfortable and have an... understanding. 

And he could kiss Thomas on his own terms, which he does again—he takes another step, and this time Thomas stumbles back into a tree, even though he should’ve seen it coming. Jimmy presses him right back into the thick trunk, and he tilts his head so their noses don’t jam together, and he presses his mouth harder to Thomas’ than he’d ever dare with a girl. He could hold Thomas harder too. He presses the tip of his tongue into the corner of Thomas’ mouth and runs it all along Thomas’ bottom lip, over to the other side and back to the middle. 

Thomas opens for him and _moans_ , loud and filthy and _beautiful_ , the sort of dirty thing that Jimmy knows is going to keep him up at night. If he’d known Thomas could make noises like that...

He doesn’t realize he’s clutching onto Thomas’ waist until Thomas’ hands are at his shoulder, just barely touching him, ghosting over the fabric. It makes Jimmy shiver, and he squeezes at Thomas’ sides, digging his thumbs in, giving the signal that this is real. Thomas’ hands land on him but are still tentative. 

Jimmy doesn’t want to break the kiss. He’s got his tongue in Thomas’ mouth, but Thomas’ tongue isn’t touching his back, and he knows Thomas is better than this. He pulls just far enough away to get air, not far enough to let go. Their legs are all touching, one of Thomas’ between his, one of his between Thomas’. “I’m not going to get you fired this time,” he whispers. 

“If I could’ve talked to you about it, I would’ve,” Thomas mumbles back. Jimmy supposes that’s true, even if it doesn’t make things any easier. “But I’m sorry I...” Even though he doesn’t finish, Jimmy knows. 

“It’s okay.” 

Or, it’s okay now. He ducks back into Thomas’ mouth, and this time, when he shoves his tongue inside, Thomas’ brushes along his. When he pushes, Thomas pushes back, and it’s stronger than Jimmy thought, something fierce and powerful that sends a spark up his spine. Thomas’ arms wrap tentatively around his shoulders, draw him closer, Jimmy kisses hard to encourage it. It _does_ feel good. It is different. Thomas is as big as him if not bigger, stands tall and strong and doesn’t really have curves, but that just makes it easier to flatten their chests together, to really grind into one another. Jimmy is grinding before he knows it. It isn’t so cold outside anymore. It’s hot beneath his too many clothes and with Thomas’ body heat up along his, and it was hot back in the pub too, with Thomas’ foot brushing along his leg under the table, by accident at first, and then undeniable when Jimmy returned it, used nudging Thomas’ thigh as a way to draw attention back to him every time Thomas might’ve looked at someone else. They swapped drinks and talked about everything and Jimmy _enjoyed_ that, does enjoy being with Thomas; why shouldn’t he want that all the time? He thinks about other patrons sneaking off around back, too inebriated to care who with, and if they lived in another world, maybe Jimmy could’ve grabbed Thomas hand, snuck him off to the bathroom, even knowing _exactly_ who Thomas Barrow is. 

And then they could’ve been like they are now, with Jimmy traveling from one sloppy kiss to another, fervently chasing the alcohol at the back of Thomas’ throat. The more they kiss, the more Jimmy likes the taste of him, likes the feeling of his velvety walls and sharp teeth and sure, hungry kisses. Jimmy rubs his entire body against Thomas’, while Thomas’ hands trace down his sides, mapping him out. They should’ve removed their coats at least, but Jimmy can’t be bothered to stop now, not for anything. He’s too busy rutting his crotch against Thomas’. When Thomas’ thigh lifts between his legs, Jimmy’s in heaven. He rubs against it and starts to rock his hips into it, couldn’t do anything else, not with the way his cock is hardening. All it wants is more of Thomas, and Thomas humps him back, giving that in spades. He thinks he can feel the outline of Thomas’ hard cock grinding back into him, but it’s all too fast and hard to tell where one body part ends and another begins. He has to slam Thomas’ hip still against the tree and force himself to rub slowly and deliberately up the front of Thomas’ trousers, just to feel that full bulge straining out to meet him. 

Then he lets go and it’s back to rocking and kissing and stifling moans, and Jimmy feels _so stupid_ , because he could’ve had this ages ago. 

When he turns his head away, Thomas tries to follow him, but Jimmy dodges and gets a peck on his cheek instead. He licks his lips and mutters through his laboured breath, “ _Thomas?_ ”

“What?” It sounds choked. Like Thomas can barely stop long enough to think, to talk. And Jimmy thought he was the drunk one. But then, Thomas has wanted this longer, had it bottled up, and Jimmy looks at his open, wet, pink lips, red in contrast to his pale skin, and Jimmy thinks of a cigarette rolling around them and coming out while Thomas’ cheeks hollowed out for a blow, then in for a suck, then wrapped around a bottle, a fiery liquid slithering down his throat, his icy eyes looking up at Jimmy through a dark fringe and a haze of lust and adoration. 

Jimmy blurts, “Would you blow me?” Or anything. A suck, a kiss, even a small lick, he just wants _Thomas’ mouth_ on him, anywhere he can get it. His hips are still going; he wonders if he’s bruising Thomas’ arse by slamming it so hard into the tree. But Thomas is probably stronger and could stop him and doesn’t. 

Thomas nods against him and mutters, “Sure, Jimmy,” but it sounds more like one of those dazed ‘ _I’ll do anything for you, Jimmy_ ’ promises than any specific understanding. 

And it doesn’t matter, because as soon as Thomas tries to slide down the trunk, Jimmy is grabbing him and shoving him back up, pinning him in place, holding him _right there_ , because Jimmy suddenly realizes that he wants to feel all of Thomas right now, and he wants to have his face buried in Thomas’ shoulder with Thomas kissing his ear while he comes. He wants to have them just like this, head to toe equals, two grown men that could maybe have a chance at being happy. 

He kisses Thomas’ cheek. He doesn’t know why. He hooks his head over Thomas’ shoulder and wraps his arms around Thomas, shielding Thomas’ back from the tree and crushing Thomas into him while he humps his way over the edge. He can feel Thomas on the way with him. He should’ve let Thomas lead this. Thomas would’ve known what to do, when and how to shed their clothes and what to remove and what to unbuckle and what to _touch_ and _feel_ and how to take each other right, but it’s too late now, and Jimmy’s a new man with the best friend he’s ever had in his arms. 

He chokes on a garbled version of Thomas’ name when he comes, a scream he buries in Thomas’ coat to avoid humiliation. He didn’t think of anyone else, not for a second. Other times, other places, all with Thomas, and even as he milks himself into his pants, still rubbing Thomas even whilst coming down, all he can do is feel good. 

Too good. He’s almost disappointed that Thomas doesn’t finish at the same time, but then, Jimmy tells himself, he’s older and probably more experienced, and Jimmy snakes a hand between them—in for a penny, in for a pound—and he presses his palm into Thomas’ cock. 

He wouldn’t have known what else to do between all their clothes, but he doesn’t have to; Thomas cries out and arches into him. Jimmy holds on while he rolls his hips to a slower end, and by then Jimmy’s foggy head is clearing, and he’s struggling for air and feeling too heavy to stand. 

He starts to lower down, and Thomas slinks to the forest floor with him. Never mind that it’s dirty; they’ve already failed that test. In amongst the roots of the tree, Jimmy untangles himself from Thomas’ arms. In retrospect, he’s almost embarrassed to have come just from that. But Thomas doesn’t look like he’s complaining. 

Thomas is looking happy and confused and mildly hysterical all at once, and he’s down and shakes his head, then grunts, “Want a cigarette.”

Which doesn’t seem like the right thing at all, because that doesn’t have to do with Jimmy. Jimmy looks down at his lap and rearranges his coat to cover the wet patch in the front, then sniffs the air to try and figure out if Mr. Carson will be able to catch them from that. They’ll have to be careful.

The always will. 

“You said never.”

Jimmy looks up, startled, but he doesn’t have to figure out what it means; Thomas tells him. “You said you could never give me what I wanted.”

He did. And at the time, he probably thought it, because although he’s perfectly capable of deep, important thought, life’s so much easier when he doesn’t. He doesn’t have any good excuse, so he just shrugs and says, “I say a lot of things.” He was nice to Ivy, once, and said a lot of things he didn’t mean, but it’s _different_ with Thomas, and it’s harder to lie. Thomas folds in his legs to cross, and it brushes them along one another. If Jimmy wanted to, he could lean in for another kiss; he’s close enough. It’s vaguely frightening how much he wants to. 

Thomas looks like he still needs to talk. He captures Jimmy with his gaze and asks, very clearly, “Do you just want easy sex or could you maybe like me?” It isn’t pressure, just an honest reexamination, and Jimmy knows Thomas doesn’t expect that any more than the rest of the world.

He thinks he could have just the easy sex too, but he doesn’t want that, not really, not when he looks at Thomas and sees how much Thomas really _cares_ , even though Jimmy’s never been decent enough to really care about anyone else in his life. Not yet, anyway. He’s never kissed any older men up against trees, either. 

So he sort of smirks, because he just got off and is feeling good and Thomas is looking as good as he did when they started, and he mumbles, “I think I could have both.” A grin starts to creep across Thomas’ face. Jimmy could go on and say he isn’t really sure how he feels yet and he can’t promise anything, but he thinks Thomas already knows. 

Thomas gets up first. He has to lean against the trunk and bend to brush the dirt off his shoes, and Jimmy follows, still feeling conspicuous but nonetheless happy. Surprisingly happy. He expected that all to be... fouler... somehow. They help one another over the trunks, and they start to weave back through the trees, and when they reach the flat lawn, they’re both too tired to run. 

When they’re inside and bidding good night, having crept around and gotten away with sin, there’s nothing nefarious in Thomas’ parting. He puts his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and says, “Good night, Jimmy.” It isn’t creepy or uncomfortable now that they both understand. It’s warm and what Jimmy wants: feeling wanted. 

He nods and says, “You too, Mr. Barrow.” Thomas’ smile is its own reward. 

They head off to different rooms, to different lives, and there was probably always a place for Thomas in Jimmy’s, anyway.


End file.
